Inside and Out
by ama.blue
Summary: Facts about your favorite crime-solving duo. Part II: Twenty Things About Seeley Booth, now up!
1. T Brennan

**Inside and Out**

**A/N: Because, for us Americans, reading and writing lists is a national pastime. :) Title taken from Feist's song of the same name.**

**A/N 2: I do not own **_**Bones. **_**I debated about whether or not to rate this as M, but ultimately did not. Let me know if you think I should up the rating, otherwise I would classify this as strong Teen. **

**Twenty Things About Temperance Brennan**

1.

The thing about being a vegetarian…

The thing about being a vegetarian is that it takes some real effort and often leaves her feeling hungry. It doesn't get easier—no matter how many sweet, red, organic tomatoes she brings home from the Farmer's Market.

And she finds she dislikes Booth most when he's biting into a hamburger.

2.

If she had a grandfather she'd like to think he'd have gotten her out of the system. Maybe genetic ties would be enough to compel someone to do that.

3.

In summer there's a brownout on Booth's side of town.

Her place is air-conditioned, cool, and he stays there until the lights are off and he's sitting with her at the foot of her bed. Booth stands to leave—for his car or her couch, she doesn't bother to ask which—and she looks pointedly at her very large bed.

She pulls back the sheets, reddens a little in the dark. "Stay."

"This is okay?"

"Yes," she murmurs into her pillow as she feels the mattress sink under his weight.

The doorman isn't discrete when he shoots a disheveled Booth a thumbs-up the next morning. She's not exactly sure what it implies, but she doesn't tip him at the end of the month.

4.

"_Sometimes it'd be the only word I said all day – 'Polo'."_

'_You're quiet_, _there's nothing wrong with that.' _That's what her mother said.

'_You're sullen.' _That's what a social worker said.

She went to a professor's office hours once at the end of term in college, the sun shining brightly onto a glossy report card bearing a bad grade.

"It doesn't matter how much you show me you know in your papers, Temperance. In a class like this you've got to talk."

That's what Professor Sanderson said.

_Anth 421: Anthropology of the Body_—she lied to Booth—she's gotten a _B_ before.

5.

She can feel the heat radiating from the palm of his hand, through her glove and despite the chill of the rink. Already she knows she'd like to do this again.

6.

In Guatemala she sees a well. A real hand-dug, hand-drawn water well—the type she's read about in books, fairytales maybe; she's never actually seen one before. There's no more water, but there's a Quiché Maya girl's bones lying in the damp soil at the very bottom. She sees the distal phalanges first and grabs hold.

And she's in that dark hole only moments before she's pulled out, the butt of a gun forcing her to her knees. She wakes some place pitch-black and cavernous, thirsty and alone. Alone until a hand pushes her back onto cold, cracked earth. She bites the tongue that gets plunged into her mouth then hears a gun cock under her breast. Her eyes shut against all of it, and she worries she might die, nameless like that little girl.

Seven years later she goes back, thinking that maybe the girl is still there, lying at the bottom of that well.

She isn't.

Brennan wonders what happened to her remains.

She tries not to imagine.

7.

Repulsion. That's what she felt the first time she fired a gun, the first time she saw gunpowder residue spread across her forefinger and thumb.

She's a good shot, and she doesn't flinch at the sight or sound of her finger pulling the trigger. Over time it becomes simple, second-nature.

But that first time it was hard.

On that second shot she decided she wouldn't be a victim ever again. She took aim and fired, didn't bristle as her bullet tore through paper and lodged a satisfying hole in the blank outline's head. After that…well, the weight of a gun in her hand is a small comfort.

She hates Booth when he takes this away, he'll never know just how much.

She hates herself for deriving power from a loaded gun.

Still, she wants it back.

8.

A deep-sea welder, a botanist, a FBI Agent turned sailor, an investment banker, a physicist, an oncologist, a journalist, a fireman, a dilettante photographer, an architect, an ornithologist, two forensic anthropologists, a cultural anthropologist, her thesis advisor, her Russian Literature TA.

That's a very long list, and that's not even all.

Angela tells her it needn't get any longer, that she only has to look at what's right in front of her.

With Angela, _I don't know what that means_ no longer seems to suffice.

9.

Angela is her best friend:

-Even when she forces her to watch a movie about the sexual and fashion-related exploits of women in New York City, twice. (Brennan admits it was a fascinating study of how closely consumerism is tied to every aspect of the average American female's life. She also liked the shoes.)

-Especially when she greets her with a hug, a clever quip, and a cup of coffee after an early morning flight. Angela hates waking up early. So Brennan appreciates it and knows she would do the same for her.

10.

She doesn't know what she would be if she weren't an anthropologist. That whole running away to join the circus thing was fun though, back in grad school and with Booth.

11.

"I'm having a difficult time understanding what insight you manage to gain from our therapy sessions," she says to Sweets, point-blank.

He tilts his head, smirks, and starts off on a long tangent ("I'm very glad you asked that question, Dr. Brennan.") that earns a frustrated sigh from her. Booth's right, Sweets is smarmy.

She knows that _nothing_ is what happens every time they go to therapy. Sweets smiles and they sit, quiet to the very end. Booth will never let her drive and he'll never eat tofu. She knows this. Topics exhausted, she'll glance sideways at Booth. Or he'll glance sideways at her. It doesn't matter. They're both about to laugh and Sweets doesn't get it at all.

There's really nothing to get. Sometimes they just like to laugh.

12.

"If you keep playing dead, I'm going to tell mom on you," Russ told her as a little kid. He'd never tell on her, she knew.

"All of us die, Russ."

"Shut up! Now I'm really going to tell mom."

"If you just imagine, it's just like the stories Ms. Hansen makes my class write. So many ways it can happen."

He puts a garter snake in her backpack. She screams bloody murder during free writing time in Ms. Hansen's class when she reaches inside for her pencil.

The thought of death by a snake really does scare her. At recess, when she is made to sit on the punishment bench, she decides that it might be a good idea to stop acting out death.

13.

Of all her grad students there's not one she likes most.

She doesn't visit Zack because she's far too busy. Then she visits him once a week because _aren't these kerf marks interesting?_, and _don't French anthropologists suggest the most bizarre things?_, and _Hodgins did an experiment, a soda can flew at my head._

It stops and starts until finally she decides to stop. Just stop.

She does come to see him when she publishes a paper, because typically Brennan, et al. would have included Zacharias Addy. But it doesn't.

Of all the grad students she's ever had, he's the biggest disappointment.

She'd never thought she'd say that.

So, yes, sometimes she is wrong.

14.

She'd been working at the Jeffersonian for a total of three weeks when she got a call one morning, asking her to come to New York immediately. Before her train could leave she got a call from Dr. Goodman telling her not to get on.

Someone with a badge, she doesn't even remember who, pulled her through the crowds gathered outside of the Pentagon. There was burning flesh and the sky was blue and cloudless as ever. She breathed and felt sick….the smell, the smell, the smell. Never before had it been that bad and she crouched down over a body, frowning at a fireman—more water could compromise the integrity of the remains— as smoke hastened a slow churning in her stomach and what felt like an onslaught of tears.

She pulled at her latex gloves then picked up her phone, speaking lowly when she got Goodman's machine. "Dr. Goodman, it's Dr. Brennan. I-I'm here, I just, I don't think I can. I can, just not until it's cleared out a bit. Otherwise, I think I'm in the way. Maybe. I know the state department wanted an immediate count and accurate IDs, but I'm not sure if that's possible just yet," she breathed, then coughed. "There's a lot…a lot of bodies, I'll try to get you a rough estimate. Okay, umm…"

She hoped Goodman didn't check his voicemail.

At night she was still there, standing amongst rubble and corpses; a policeman beside her paused for a moment to pray.

No rational, reasonable person could possibly believe in God.

15.

On her birthday her father buys her trick candles. Again.

Except this time there are thirty-three rather than fifteen.

"Dad, I haven't even eaten breakfast yet."

"Remember, Tempe? Remember when I used to let you eat cake for breakfast on your birthday?"

She blows once and walks away rather than keep trying with the excited flames. The cake is sitting on her desk when she returns to her office a half hour later, not a candle in sight.

Does she feel bad? Guilty?

Yes and no.

There are certain traditions that she discarded a long time ago.

There are others she's picked up. She answers her phone, smiling into the receiver, when Russ and his girls call singing her happy birthday off-key.

16.

Russ' daughters love her macaroni and cheese ("It's soooooooo good, Auntie Temperance!), and when she babysits them she finds she's not terrible at it. She forgets how many times she's had to tell them that Sumerian pots and Olmec heads are meant for looking, not touching. Still, they bring life to her quiet apartment; she thinks kids are good in that way.

Booth loves her seven-layer dip and says she can observe a football game with him if she promises to bring some with her.

"Wouldn't it be better to observe this from a stadium seat?" she asks after the first quarter ends.

"That costs money, Bones."

"So does cable."

"Come on, a couch, The Steelers, seven-layer dip, you. Hey, that's the best seat in the house, right?"

She's not sure, she's never had stadium seats—depending on where she sat, she thinks it could be more visceral than HD. Booth disagrees.

17.

The first and only time it happens, she's sitting on her couch after having left Booth at the hospital. Her head is swollen and she's supposed to be on a date.

It's boredom or instinct—she slides a hand over her breasts, under her bra, back and forth. She teases herself like this for a few moments before her fingers and thumb slip under the material of her skirt.

And Booth's fingers, well they're thicker, longer, and would ultimately be more satisfying, right? Booth would be satisfying.

She comes quickly against her fingers, shaking as his name falls from her lips, unbidden. Her face is hot, just like her hand, and she exhales, eyes closed because surely this must be wrong. If they're partners…well, that's just not allowed.

Smoothing back her hair, she wills herself not to let this happen again.

And it doesn't.

She's that compartmentalized.

But it's never quite the same. Never quite as good.

Not like she knows it could be, if she let herself go there again.

One day she knows she'll slip and she won't be able stop herself.

18.

She lays her award on the kitchen table, kicks off her heels—her feet would have been blistered and aching whether she'd spent the last night looking for Booth or shaking people's hands. She's tired, but she tosses and turns until she doesn't want sleep anymore.

She writes Kathy and Andy like this:

"_I don't think I've talked quite so much in a very long time," Kathy said over the din, just loud enough for Andy to hear. _

_He leaned against the wall beside her. She really hadn't seen him at all that night; he looked good in a tux. "So you're hiding?" _

"_No. I'm thirsty."_

_He chuckled a little, prying her empty glass from her fingers. "You've got nothing in your glass."_

_He poured half of the contents of his tumbler into her champagne flute before handing it back. He clinked his drink to hers, breathing out a low laugh against her face, before taking a liberal swig—ethanol only makes a person thirstier. She watched him swallow before speaking again._

"_Alcohol won't actually help," she looked down ruefully into the flute, but took a sip anyway, before setting it down._

_He stared back toward the room full of people and gestured toward a cluster of graying, somewhat scruffy looking men. "Now those guys look like they look at bones for a living."_

"_And I don't?"_

"_You talk like someone who does." She consciously furrowed her brow, attempting not to look amused by his nonobjective observations. _

_He watched her for a few moments until fed up she turned toward him. "What?" _

"_Look at that smile." He pulled her into the light, grabbing for her hand. She wanted to step away, but he held fast, starting to sway as she stood stock still in his arms. "I think Professor what's-his-name really wanted to dance with you."_

_She shook her head, laughing then leaning into him. Neither of them could dance very well, but it was worth a try. "You can't honestly expect me to know who you are talking about."_

"_And that guy with the Hitler mustache and the guy whose family owns Nabisco," his grin grew even wider as she rolled her eyes. "Free crackers, Kathy."_

"_They should have just asked me."_

"_They should have," he said solemnly._

_She looked pointedly at her hand in his, raising an eyebrow. "Just like you did?"_

Does art imitate life?

She deletes the conversation, undecided.

Had she and Booth gone to the gala last night she thinks she might have an answer, or some idea of what happens next. Instead, she stares at a blank computer screen, contemplating her editor's request for forward movement when it comes to Kathy and Andy.

19.

She loves the Jeffersonian, plain and simple. If ever she had a home…well, that would be it, wouldn't it?

Some people find no appeal, no comfort in science, steel, and glass—sharp edges and sterility that's considered unnatural.

But appearances can be deceiving, she knows.

20.

Love: pronounced [_luhv_]: (1) strong affection for another arising out of kinship or personal ties

If that is the definition of love and she bears strong affection for Booth, is she not, by definition, in love with Booth?

Scratch that.

Does she not, by definition, love Booth?

She doesn't like syllogisms.

**A/N: The 9/11 part was difficult to imagine, and thus difficult to write. I hope my use of that event in fanfic doesn't seem flip, that definitely wasn't my intention.**

**There will be a part two. How about, Seventeen Things About Seeley Booth? **

**Let me know what you think! **


	2. S Booth

**Inside and Out**

**A/N: Part 2. **

**Had to up the rating to M because of some of the language in this part. And it's **_**twenty**_** things because Aching Bones so nicely questioned why Seeley Booth only gets seventeen things written about him just for the sake of alliteration. :) **

********************

**Twenty Things About Seeley Booth. **

1.

Odom passes to Kobe, who does one of those crazy 360 degree layups that earns him twenty million dollars a year. Booth knows he would never have been able to do that, good shoulder or no. Still, he tries it out from time to time when he's alone, on a court, with a basketball in his hand.

2.

Brennan promises that if he doesn't get in that taxi she'll align his back, give him a massage, whatever he wants.

"Whatever I want?"

"Within reason." She waves her magic knuckles in front of his face and he caves like he would have whether she promised him a back massage or not.

But apparently a back massage is not within reason at eleven o'clock on a Wednesday night—there's simply not enough time for her give a sufficient one. So instead, she perches on his lap, rubs his temples to get his blood flowing, to get him thinking more clearly.

"It's a very effective technique I learned in Thailand," she breathes against his face, sliding her fingers into his hair. He can feel his blood flowing away from his head, his thoughts becoming more clouded with every slow circle she draws.

"Uh huh, right there," he says sleepily before, as she later recounts to him, he falls asleep. He falls asleep while she's sitting in his lap, running her fingers through his hair. He's gotta shake his head at that one.

He remembers waking on his couch to the sound of an alarm he didn't set, finding himself under a blanket, and calling to ask her where she put his tie ("I'm almost certain it's lying right next to you on the coffee table._"_).

3.

There was that Saturday morning when he realized his mother was never coming back, that she wasn't away on vacation like everyone said. He threw his radio, watched it break against the wall after he heard that stupid Wipe-all window washing solution jingle she spent a whole afternoon at the piano writing.

Years went by where _at least dad stayed_ seemed to be justification enough for a whole lot of shit that wasn't justified at all.

4.

He doesn't balk when Rebecca signs Parker up to perform in a local musical theater production. At the performance, he claps and whistles louder than any other parent until his son waves while singing "Food, Glorious Food". And Booth can't help the grin that spreads across his face when Parker asks him never to let mom put him in a production of _Oliver!_ ever again.

5.

In the army, after finding his aim was so sure, he felt there was something fluid and reassuring about the rapid succession of bullets from his M24.

There were no religious experiences to be found in that desert, where he couldn't walk without kicking sand into his face. He went months finding more satisfaction in hitting living, breathing, moving targets than any practice ones the government could provide, months feeling remorse for not feeling remorse. Gaze steady, fingers callused in all the right places, stomach coiled as tightly as those bullets clenched in the barrel of his gun, he found divine inspiration enough to hit right where he aimed. Every single time.

Now, there's a trigger and he pulls it; there's no poetry in it at all. But there's precision, always that precision that kept him a sniper, that keeps his fingers callused, that garners him a clap on the back anytime there's someone there to watch him shoot. It keeps him awake on nights when all he can do is pace his bedroom, remembering the dust in his mouth and the feeling that there were good reasons why he was shooting men when their backs were turned.

6.

Eight months ago he dated a dermatologist named Katherine.

He remembers waking to see her hair strewn across his pillow. The sun through his blinds turned it that honey color he'd liked on so many women before her. "Stop watching me sleep," she commanded with a laugh.

He smiled, liking her eyes, and her hair, and the shape of her body under his sheet. He liked that she didn't spend every other sentence correcting him, liked that she laughed when he made a joke.

But the prospect of spending forever in like with someone has never really appealed. It still doesn't, though he can admit waking up alone isn't so great either.

Saying he does fine is probably, maybe, definitely an overstatement.

Eight months isn't fine. Eight months is a very long time.

7.

It had become a distracting inevitably that he'd end up in that bed with her, in only the most literal way imaginable, at the end of the day. Tasting cool stale air not her warm pliant mouth, under sheets not tangled in them: in bed not _in bed. _How else could it possibly be with his literal, logical partner?

Only, he knows how it could possibly be—that there'd be something in kissing that shocking red off of her lips. Something different and all too similar to lying next to her on a pillow, in a bed, with the sound of her slow, measured breathing lulling him to sleep. And maybe the difference is that the red is still there (faded but there) when she curls into herself then into his chest.

It's reflexive, unconscious, her movement closer to him. Should that mean anything at all? His mind feels as blank as the dark ceiling of the trailer.

8.

After the two weeks Booth spent pretending to be dead, Parker clings to him in a way he never has before.

He returns to that phase of holding the hem of his father's shirt while they cross the street and cries when they kneel at the foot of his bed for nighttime prayers.

They get to 'If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take' before Parker starts sniffling, a tear leaking onto his folded hands.

"Hey, hey what's wrong?"

"I didn't-didn't like pretending you were dead, daddy. And I don't want to pray about dying while I'm 'sleep."

Parker wipes at one of his eyes and Booth pulls him into a tight embrace. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry Parker. I promise it won't happen ever again. Tomorrow, you and I are both gonna wake up. We're going to wake up, and we're going to make chocolate chip pancakes with whip cream faces and everything. That sound good to you?"

Parker nods his head yes but knocks on Booth's bedroom door in the middle of the night nevertheless.

And Booth knows that Dr. Spock advises not to let your kid get into the habit of sleeping in your bed, but screw Dr. Spock.

9.

When he met Cam she was a hard-nosed cop who still looked like a snot-nosed kid.

Smarter than anyone he was used to, he found there wasn't anything hard about her at all (not even her nose). There wasn't a bit of her that wasn't smooth under his hands, and there was never a moment's hesitation when she told him she wouldn't be staying the night.

And always, always they were easy, comfortable, and lasting friends. Why was that never enough to make lines worth overstepping or assuredly great sex more palatable than Thai food and form-filling with his partner?

10.

He's such an unnecessary, bureaucratic waste of her time, and she tells him this the moment Goodman tells her that her work on ancient skeleton blah blah blah is postponed so she can work on a federal case.

It almost guts him to think that four years down the line she might still feel exactly the same way.

11.

There's this scene…

Kathy's livid with Andy for his being self-sacrificing for her sake. They're so close to shouting and his mouth is too close to offer apologies or admit that he's done anything wrong (because he hasn't). But his mouth is close enough to claim hers. Her fingers tear at the buttons on his shirt and she tells him to stop murmuring things in her ear. She pushes him every way she knows how until everything is hard and fast and urgent, just like she likes, and they have a nice cleansing fuck in the backseat of his car.

Of course he reads her books.

12.

His hands used to itch when he knew he was _that_ close to winning. It was always in that good, exhilarating way that made his throat run dry with the thought of all those chips piled in front of him. And sometimes there were a hell of a lot of them.

Those are the times he tries not to remember—all those cool discs under the palms of his hands, tangible things that meant everything in the moment. It was always _screw confession, and the Rangers, and all the shitty desk work at the bureau _until that moment was over. And it was never long before it was over.

He was always a winner until he was a loser, that doesn't just go away with the chips. Sometimes that itch is still there, his hands wanting something to hold onto.

13.

He thinks of Rebecca and he remembers growing, and gambling, and jokes about their super with the funny accent.

He remembers her asking him to kiss her in the rain then telling him never to kiss her in the rain ever again ("Now that was just cheesy, Seeley.").

He remembers Atlantic City and all of the money he won to buy her that fan-fucking-tastic ring, and he remembers pawning the ring when the answer was no.

He remembers two blue lines and loving her still, loving his son before he even saw his heartbeat.

Time can heal almost anything, lessen how he loves her to almost not-at-all—but it never goes away, not entirely.

14.

His grandfather was able to recall the names of all the men in his Air Force squadron, complained of being an old man while taking him on in a game of touch football, and memorized Abbot and Costello skits.

Now Booth tries to smile into the receiver when his grandfather asks when he's due back from the Gulf, when he will get serious with a girl, when he will finally learn how to drive a stick-shift. He murmurs _thanks_ when his grandfather says he's stopping by tomorrow with a bike for his birthday—a boy his age deserves a good bike—and Booth hates the thought of ever having to be indulged like this. He wishes he knew how to talk to this man he used to know.

15.

That whole clown thing—it would make more sense if there were a story behind it, but there isn't. Bottom line: they're unnatural, they scare children. No one's nose is that big or that red; no one's that happy or sad.

Clowns are stupid, unnecessary; that doesn't mean he's scared of the damned things.

But he can understand why someone would be.

16.

And maybe he shouldn't have sidestepped his issues with his father while Wyatt was his therapist. Because…

"There's no way I'm discussing that with Kid Klingon."

"I'm sitting right here, Agent Booth, you can address me directly. And dude, I would _so not_ be a Klingon."

As a child, his silence and refusal to cry only provoked his father more and, until the day he fought back, his father's punches and rage only provoked his own stubborn silence. A part of him wishes he had a shrink who he'd want to make sense of that.

17.

"What d'ya think 12.5% alcohol content really means?" Jared asks, reading the label of a wine bottle left out after mass.

Seeley shrugs, though sometimes he also wonders if that percentage would be enough to make him pick a fight or punch a wall.

Jared tips the bottle toward his mouth, filling his cheeks with the red liquid before his brother can snatch it away. "What are you doing? That's not allowed."

Jared gargles then swallows, coughing a little as it goes down. "Stuff's disgusting."

"I could've told you that. Now you're gonna have to confess to a father that you drank holy wine outside of mass."

"Why don't you just absolve me, Seel?"

"I'm not a priest, idiot."

"But you're a really good altar server."

Seeley sighs, making a giant sign of the cross in front of his brother. "You are forgiven, child." They both laugh a little. "Now say three Hail Marys and promise never to be gluttonous again."

"I promise!" Jared shouts, his echo muted in that small backroom of the church. "Wow, you even sound kinda like Father McKinnon."

-

Booth was almost sure that Jared liked being Seeley's kid brother.

He knows better now.

18.

Her lips are a little swollen and fastened to the edge of her coffee cup when he answers the door. "I had a date," she says without missing a beat.

He moves to let her in, then shifts to block the doorway, gritting his teeth at the smell of cologne on her just over the coffee she hands him. "Must not have been very good if it's over already."

"You were complaining about all of the paperwork we wouldn't get done tonight, so I thought we should get it done."

He lets out a low, unnatural laugh that almost makes him cringe. Almost. "So, how many guys are you seeing this time around?"

"Just one." She frowns a little then shrugs her shoulders. "I suppose that means I've conformed to your priggish views on dating." He's silent, which makes her frown just a little bit more; he wonders if she's really as confused as she looks.

"Booth, I thought you'd be…"

"Happy?"

And just that once he wishes he had the courage, the balls, to ask her to leave.

19.

Quantico was a formality.

He walks into an interrogation room without a script, without tactics or gameplans, without any of that special training from the Academy. He doesn't read people, he learns them: their faces studies in emotion you can't pick up in a classroom. It's no special talent; he watches, he listens, he engages. People forget to really do that. And you've got to, whether it's a killer you're talking to or not.

He learns from experience, has learned fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty-three times over that all killers are eventually bound to crack. If he were any exception, well, then he wouldn't be so good at this, would he?

20.

Bones quadruple triple double dog dares him ("Your son _just_ said that's how the phrase goes, Booth.") not to eat meat at dinner; abstaining from animal fats at just one meal would make him realize that—

"There's a reason why I'm not a vegetarian?" He chuckles as her earnest expression sours. "Men eat meat, not rabbit food," he says, ruffling Parker's hair. "Right, bud?"

"I'm getting macaroni and cheese."

Parker gives Bones a sly sort of smile, and that little sight alone compels Booth to order pancakes for himself, hold the animal fats, and a nice, generous slice of lemon meringue for the lady who has shown him expanding one's diet is as easy as pie.

Bones kicks at his feet under the table, biting her lip until she feels him kick back. Parker laughs in that young, tinkling way that always makes him smile.

And the next time they're at the diner Booth double dog dares her ("Double is more than enough of a dare, Bones.") to eat a burger; he thinks that if she did she'd spend a lot less time frowning as he eats his.

*******************

**A/N: ****I've also written a one-shot about #7. I sort of just fleshed it out…which is code for it will be Rated M. I will post it soon... **


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